Tunnel Spider
by Alicia Hayes
Summary: Impersonating German officers, blowing up bridges and helping POW's escape all a simple days work for the prisoners of Stalag 13. Until an unassuming Tunnel Spider is found. "CARTER, when were you going to tell us you had a cousin?"
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

A flickering candle lit the dirt tunnel, hidden from the watchful guards of _Stalag_ 13\. The men who had created them scurried in and out of the tunnels regularly, making their exits as they pleased, dashing to and fro in the woods. The hidden trapdoors and entrances would have made it easier to escape, but they never did, for they had other designs for this camp. This was part of an elaborate escape and spying operation called The Underground, for prisoners and the allies of the order to escape by. This is the story of the unsung heroes of _Stalag 13._

The candle waved violently as an unseen figure passed closely by, invisible to all but the most diligent watcher. The shadow slunk along the length of the passage, silent as a cat, and slipped behind a barrel that was being used to catch the water that had dripped into the tunnel, hiding from the prisoners that were in charge of tunnel upkeep. The prisoners walked right by the barrel without a thought, talking about the weather and how the rain kept pouring.

* * *

I am the shadow.

Their voices faded as they turned left, leaving the hallway open for me to make my way to my own secret tunnel: my den where I have lived for the past three months, coming out only to check if a pipe had burst or a leak made its way into the tunnels. I fix the little things, as silent and unacknowledged thanks for the shelter and food they had unwittingly provided for me. I slid into the little room I had created for myself, and curling up on the pile of discarded or forgotten clothes and rags, fell asleep.

* * *

Carter was starting to get on his nerves. Though Newkirk often thought of the young American as a brother, he had a way of rambling about the same subject for hours. As they reinforced the braces on the sides of tunnel 5, Carter was going on and on about how he just couldn't get the formula for a new explosive right.

"I swear, I've tried everything I can think of, but it always goes wrong and blows up in my face!"

As Sergeant Andrew Carter was the demolitions expert, he almost always had something to say about chemicals.

Newkirk wasn't sure if Carter had meant to make that small ironic joke or not, but he chose to ignore it. It was generally the proper way to address such a situation with the not-so-bright sergeant.

A fairly large glob of mud fell on his shoulder, spattering his face with bits of grime and muck and making it even more miserable than before. Newkirk muttered a British term of profanity as he wiped the goo off his face and onto the rags they were using to stifle the massive onslaught of rain and dirt. He went over to the far end of the tunnel to fix a fairly large crack he had seen coming back from last night's mission. He scooped some of the filler they were patching the walls with, and raised it up to the spot he had seen the crack.

It was gone.

Newkirk dropped the trowel full of patching goop back into the bucket he was carrying, and searched the wall for the crack, thinking perhaps it was somewhere else, but found nothing.

"'ey Carter," he shouted down the tunnel. "Did you patch this crack over 'ere?"

Carter stopped mid-rant and looked over to where Newkirk was standing.

"No. Why?"

Newkirk peered closer at the wall, thinking perhaps it was a trick of the lighting.

_Mmm…I must have imagined it last night, or I'm going bonkers..._ Less than convinced but willing to accept the lack of one more task, he moved on.

A shout came from the end of the tunnel, alerting them to make fast work to the upstairs. The two men dropped their buckets and bolted quietly to the entrance. Scuttling up the ladder, they closed the trapdoor and darted to their bunks, falling into inspection formation merely moments before the Commandant entered the barracks.

The Commandant, with a name of Col. Wilhelm Klink, was a very odd sort of chap. He wasn't very bright, and his tight, scuttling walk gave him an even more awkward look than the monocle provided. Klink marched directly to the private quarters of Col. Hogan, and barged in. The men could hear the commandant angrily ramble at Hogan, and the silver-tongued American replying with ease.

First Sergeant Schultz moseyed in and shut the door after him. Schultz was a rather fat, cowardly sort; easily scared and bribed even easier. He wasn't one to snoop about unless forced to at gunpoint. No-one was sure how he made it to First Sergeant.

Schultz lazily saluted them and relaxed against the table, dropping his never-loaded rifle out of guard position. Newkirk and LeBeau, a French Corporal, both slipped over to Schultz and with a glace of silent communication, started to prod Schultz for info, trying to find out exactly why Klink had come so abruptly to the barracks instead of summoning Hogan.

"I do not know, and I do not _care_ to know." He stated most emphatically. "All I know iz that he received a phone call from some beeg shot General about a prisoner that escaped from _Stalag _18 and was reported about in zees area."

He clapped his hand over his mouth, as if realizing he had told them a military secret right after he had declared _not_knowing anything.

"What iz wrong wiz me? I know nothing; nothing!" he muttered while glancing around to make sure Klink had not heard.

Carter stifled a chuckle and LeBeau smirked in amusement at the German's slip-up.

Klink shoved open the door of Hogan's room and marched out of the barracks without another word. Schultz jumped up and ran after him, anxious to stay in the Colonel's favor.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Newkirk, LeBeau, Carter, and Kinchloe, their communications expert, quickly stepped inside the private quarters, shutting the door for privacy from snooping guards. They found Hogan, who was unusually perturbed, pacing the length of his room. He gestured for them to sit down, not thinking about the lack of chairs. He sighed ruefully and started shuffling through papers on the relatively small desk.

"We have a problem." He stated blandly. He picked up a piece of paper and stared at it, though Newkirk highly suspected it had nothing to do with the subject at hand. Hogan tapped the paper and sat in the chair provided at the desk.

"It seems a prisoner that escaped from a transfer truck on his way to _Stalag_ 18 several months ago was seen wandering in the woods; a prisoner of vital importance to the _Gestappo_." He paused and rubbed his hand across his head, a sign of stress for him.

"Not only that, but he actually attacked one of the guards' that had seen him last night, meaning Klink is upping the security, in an attempt to catch this prisoner._.."_ He waved his hand distractedly. _ "_They intend to catch him, but _apparently_," he said, putting stress on the last word. "…the prisoner keeps disappearing into thin air."

The implication was clear.

"You think he's using one of the tunnels as means for hiding?" Kinchloe asked slowly, as if he were afraid of being reprimanded.

The rest of them looked at Hogan for affirmation. Hogan nodded with a jerk of his head.

"If he keeps this up, he could lead the guards' right to the tunnel entrance, and then the whole thing is blown. All that to say, it's too dangerous to have him roaming about.

"I want everyone who goes in the tunnels to keep a sharp eye out for him. If he is down there, we need to either get him to England," he paused, as of weighing his decision.

"…or we need to get him captured."

* * *

Quiet whispers woke me from my slumber. Sitting up, I listened carefully for noises of warning, waiting like a spider at its web. I often thought of myself like a spider: listening, waiting, and hiding in its little hole. The noises were agitated and urgent, as if something were wrong. I scuttled back from the trapdoor and stilled, keeping quiet as possible. Scuffles and muffled footsteps were the only sound to be heard.

Then, of a sudden, the noise ceased. I leaned forward a bit, unconsciously, listening harder for some sort of sound.

_The tracks!_ My heart skipped a beat. Last night's skirmish above ground had been tiring, and I feared that my routine of brushing away the tracks had been forgone.

A creak of a switch, and the spring released the trapdoor. I flew forward and swiftly grabbed the end of the door, holding it down to keep it from being seen.

_They must have leaned on the switch by accident._ I hoped they had not heard the click.

The voices remained quiet with the exception of a whisper I could not hear the words of. Another lull of fearful quiet went by, and then they moved on. The click-clack of shoes echoed softly off the walls, and was soon heard no more.

I sighed softly and made a mental note to create a different switch in my spare time.

* * *

Hogan wasn't satisfied. Newkirk and the others could tell. After they found the mysterious tracks in the tunnel, he had been on edge, not really hearing what was said to him. He sort of just sat in his office and thought.

"'E's been in there all day!" Newkirk exclaimed impatiently, his Cockney accent becoming more pronounced as he grew agitated. Carter mumbled something unintelligible, looking like the dead. He had been up most of the night putting a light coat of white paint on the walls of tunnel six, by Hogan's order, though he hadn't said why.

Carter diligently scrubbed his white-plastered skin to remove the paint as LeBeau handed out their breakfast. Newkirk and several of the others played poker to pass the time. An environment he was used to.

Newkirk smiled as he laid down his hand and watched the other players frown or grumble as he scooped up his winnings, containing mostly cigarettes and pieces of candy from the Red-Cross packages. Newkirk was by far the best card-master in the barracks, and quite possibly the camp. A fact he was proud of.

A small click-thud announced the arrival of Kinchloe, and the dark-skinned pilot stepped out of the tunnel entrance, and not even acknowledging the greetings of the other prisoners, he glanced over the room cautiously, and then quickly stepped into Col. Hogan's quarters. Everyone in the outside room stopped all conversation and stared at the barrier between them and the other two of their team.

A bang sounded, indicating that Hogan had knocked something over. LeBeau and Carter looked urgently at each other and watched the door anxiously.

The door burst open and everyone jumped up simultaneously and waited quietly, curiosity brimming in the air. Hogan stepped out and quickly went to the trapdoor, flying down the ladder.

As soon as the door closed to the entrance, everyone started to talk at once. All that Newkirk could hear was his own thoughts, which was somewhat surprising to him, all things considering.

He and Carter both jumped into the tunnel to see what Hogan was doing, LeBeau close behind. They jogged down the tunnels, looking this way and that for the other two men.

Newkirk slammed into Carter's back, and LeBeau into his as the American came to a dead halt without warning.

"Carter!" LeBeau growled, brushing off his uniform.

"Sorry, guys." He replied sheepishly. "They're down this tunnel."

He pointed down tunnel six and then bolted in the direction he had indicated. LeBeau muttered something in French and then dodged around Newkirk, who was rubbing his stomach where Carter's bony elbow had jabbed the air out from his lungs.

When he caught up with the others, they stood in a half-circle around, well, nothing. He followed their gazes, looking hard for what they might be so interested in.

Then he saw it. Against the freshly-painted wall was a thin, almost indistinguishable line from where a small trapdoor had been opened, breaking the paint seal.

_So that's why he had him paint the walls, but…_

"'ow did you know that he was in this tunnel, Colonel?" He asked, quite befuddled.

Hogan looked at him with a small smirk of victory. Then he gestured for silence as he walked over to the far side of the tunnel, and grabbed hold of one of the support beams that lined the walls. He gave it a deft push, and then a faint click resounded. The now-apparent door popped ever so slightly open, and Hogan pulled on the edge, revealing the enclosure within.

A space that was no more than three and a half feet tall, and four or five feet long was strewn with old clothes and rags, presumably bedding. A sack sat in the corner, lumpy and empty looking. Kinchloe reached in and grabbed it, checking to make sure it wasn't attached to anything.

When the sack's contents were laid out, it was simply clothes and a small metal tin that made tiny clinking noises when it was moved. Newkirk picked up the tin, thinking he could pick the lock easily enough, but when he fiddled with the lock on the box, but it seemed to require two keys at once, and Newkirk had to use both hands on just one lock. He threw it back in the sack.

"He must be pretty small…" Hogan picked up a piece of clothing and held it up for them to see. It was remarkably small.

"Hey! That's mine!" LeBeau exclaimed, snatching the shirt from the Colonel. He turned it over in his hands mumbling in French again. Newkirk peered closer at it, and pulled it from the small Frenchman's hands. A closer look confirmed his suspicion.

"It looks like 'e adjusted it even smaller than it was before." He said quietly.

Carter's eyebrows shot upwards on his forehead.

"Even smaller than LeBeau?" he asked in a state of confusion.

LeBeau glared at him, taking the young American's bluntness offensively. Kinchloe and Newkirk smirked into their hands; LeBeau's shortness was often a sore spot for him, as he only stood five feet and one inch from the ground. And that one inch was _always_ included when his height was mentioned. It was just safer that way.

Newkirk chuckled under his breath and continued.

"Actually, it was let out a tiny bit length-wise, but this chap must be awfully skinny, because 'e made the waist on the pants smaller."

"Great," LeBeau said with quite a snarky tone. "Just when I thought _I _would be able to tease someone else about _their_ height…"

Kinchloe clapped him on the back and offered his condolences, smiling all the while. Hogan smiled briefly at the exchange, and then his face went stoic again.

"All right, that's enough. We need to get on with the matter at hand." He tapped his hand on his chin, and then an all too familiar smile slid onto his face.

"All right,' he said quietly. "Here's what we're going to do."

* * *

I crept past the guards in the woods, exhausted from the trip into town. It was no easy task to get into the living quarters of the Grocery store and then slipping down and through without being spotted. But it was worth it. I smiled to myself and patted the sack full of food, glad that taking food from the prisoners wasn't necessary for at least another week. I felt awful about stealing, but at least it was from the enemy this time.

The guard was making his round, and passed the tunnel entrance, not realizing that an ordinary-looking stump was the key to the operation that was even farther from his mind. As he was passing, I slunk like a cat to the stump, silent as a shadow. I knew that the best time to do something was right after someone had looked for it. The expectation of something happening would dissipate and float to the back of their mind. So, as soon as he finished his routine, I quietly opened the door and leapt inside. The hallway of the tunnels were darker than usual, so I didn't have to go quite as slowly, a fact to be grateful for when one is exhausted, and wanting to be asleep.

Taking a right into tunnel 6, I realized something was different. Peering through the darkness, the change was found.

White! The walls were white! But why would they paint only one tunnel? Were they perhaps marking it as under construction? Or were they in the process of painting all of the tunnels? I was absolutely bewildered. Slowly continuing, I glanced around, and not seeing anyone, pushed the support beam to trigger the spring. The trapdoor popped ever so slightly out, and I grabbed it, and when it was far enough to squeeze through, rolled inside.

I was relieved no-one was out in the hall, or the panic that constricted my chest would have caused clumsiness, and the clumsiness would have caused capture.

As I heaved a huge sigh of relief, a dreaded realization pushed itself into my mind. The paint…

_Click! _

"Don't even think about moving." The voice, heavily accented, came from right next to my ear. A cold tickle warning the presence of a gun pointed at my forehead.

Instinct kicked in, and I flew backwards, rolling out the door, which had been broken. Hitting the ground, I landed face-first and would have jumped up and run, were it not for the three pairs of shoes that were at eye level.

"Stay where you are." The warning brooked no argument. I was paralyzed with fear for my life. I complied and simply curled in a protective ball, hoping the end would be swift.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everybody. I just wanted to thank everyone who was so kind as to review, favorite and/or follow my story. Everyone of them just made my day that much better. Also I'm trying to update every two weeks but please keep in mind I'm in school and I may be a little late at times. That's all for now, enjoy. :)  
**

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Newkirk almost felt sorry for the fellow who lay curled up on the ground, but the anger of being made a fool of overcame that feeling of pity. LeBeau jumped out of the tunnel where he had hidden and added his gun to the numbers pointed at the man.

"You were right, Newkirk." Kinch said mockingly. "He _is_ awfully small."

The man flinched and curled tighter, apparently protecting his head. Newkirk knelt down next to him, and looked closer at the intruder. Light brown hair covered by a 'toboggan' cap, and an assortment of clothes that had once been cast out, and were now altered to fit the smaller man. Old civilian clothes, he realized, so he assumed the man had just been in town. Newkirk forced him onto his back, wanting to get a better look at his face. He recoiled in surprise at what he found.

A round face covered with dirt, and freckles dotting across his nose and cheeks, indicating his youth. He couldn't have been older than eighteen, which was as young as the Army would take them.

The only more surprising thing was the black eye patch that covered his left eye, and the scar that peeked out from underneath.

_Quite a war wound for a kid._ He roughed the young man's shoulder, urging him to his feet.

The kid's right eye slowly crept open, revealing bright blue, adding to the image of a child in his mind. Newkirk shook his head. What passed for a soldier these days was all-out ridiculous.

Newkirk stood, his pistol pointed at the intruder's face.

"Up you go, then" Kinch ordered evenly. "…but nice and slow, if you don't mind."

The man nodded, avoiding eye contact, and slowly rolled onto his stomach, then cautiously pulled his feet under him. He proceeded to put his hands on his head, and Hogan came and stepped in front of him, and then just stood there silently, an intimidation tactic he often used with enemies.

But to everyone's surprise instead of shrinking away in fear as his previous behavior suggested he would, the lad seemed to physically gather his courage, and lifted his head to stare directly into the eyes of the Colonel.

As he lifted his chin up in defiance, Newkirk noted a large bruise on his upper throat, and grimaced at the size and color of it. The bruise was nearly the same size as his hand, and instead of the usual purplish-blue of most bruises, it was almost navy blue, and faded into a sickly green and yellow around the edges. A break in the skin was visible near the middle, where the offending object had impacted the neck.

From the brief flicker of eye contact and the twitch in his jaw, he knew Hogan had seen it too.

"Alright," he began. "Who are you, and how did you find this tunnel?" the Colonel's voice was low and menacing.

The man opened his mouth to speak, but as he tried to say something, he coughed and grasped his throat. The coughing continued for a few seconds, hard and painful-sounding. Newkirk felt his eyes widen with the rest of the group as blood started dripping from the kid's mouth, running onto his shirt in a horrid shade of red.

Hogan stepped back from the initial spit of blood and then when the racking coughs ceased, he graciously handed the boy his handkerchief from his pocket. The boy, however, glared angrily at him and wiped the blood on his sleeve. LeBeau muttered something in French, presumably about the ungrateful attitude of the young man. But instead of ignoring what they assumed he couldn't understand, the lad whirled to face LeBeau, and piercing him with a glare, spat blood next to the Frenchman's shoes.

Kinchloe and Newkirk shared a glance that communicated a thought. This kid, whoever he was, knew French. Not exactly a common language taught in school.

"Again, I'll ask." Hogan said quite blandly. "_Who are you_?"

These last words were so forcefully delivered that the kid's face lost all signs of attitude. Reaching behind his neck he reached under his collar and tugged a chain with Dog Tags over his head. He stretched his arm out stiff and dropped the Tags into Hogan's waiting hands.

Then Carter, who had been sent to find suitable handcuffs, reentered the tunnel just as Hogan fumbled with the identification tags.

"Here you go, sir." He spouted out with a smile. "I had an awful time finding them, but I…"

Carter stopped mid-sentence, staring. Everyone in the room simultaneously followed his gaze. The young man covered in blood turned a panicked grey color, even under all that dirt.

"_Charlie_?" Carter asked in a voice that stated he couldn't believe his eyes.

Newkirk looked between them, wondering what on earth was happening.

Charlie, as Carter had called him, ever so slightly cocked his head and widened his eyes, almost as if in warning. Even less notably, he quickly tapped an open hand on his fist twice, and dropped them back at his side, his face regaining a neutral expression.

Carter, however, was livid.

"What the _heck_ are _you_ doing_ here_?!" his face was quickly turning red. "And what on earth is all that blood from?" he asked furiously as he pointed between the small man's sleeve and chest.

Newkirk watched in amazement as shy, calm Carter turned into a living hurricane.

Carter took two huge steps until he was face-to-face with Charlie, and leaned into his face, towering over him. Carter was by no means tall or bulky, and in fact could be described with the word 'wiry'. But compared to the other man, he was huge.

Carter whispered something in a fierce tone to the smaller man, who in turn glared daggers through his good eye at Carter. Charlie turned up his collar as if an act of pride and stubbornness, but if Newkirk guessed correctly, his true intent was covering the wound on his neck.

Hogan cleared his throat, interrupting the awkward and confusing moment between the two men.

"Not to be rude, but it would be very helpful if someone would explain what was happening." He said pointedly. Carter took a deep breath and ran his hand through his hair, unconsciously knocking his hat off his head.

"Well…" he threw a hand in the air, an obviously frustrated gesture.

Charlie elbowed him in the ribs roughly, and when he gained Carter's attention, made several quick hand movements and then stared at Carter with a raised eyebrow. Carter sighed and nodded.

"Colonel, this is Charlie Ryan." He looked wearily at the man next to him. "…my cousin."

"What!" LeBeau exclaimed. "You never told us you had a cousin!"

"Except for the Indian one…" Kinchloe muttered. Carter's cousin looked at him with a quizzical face, then turned back to his cousin, thrusting a thumb in Kinch's direction.

Carter ignored him and faced Hogan.

"Sir, if it's alright with you, I'd kinda like to talk to him alone." He already had one hand firmly gripping Charlie's shoulder.

At Hogan's quick nod, he hauled his cousin after him into the nearest tunnel. As Newkirk watched, the two stood nose-to-nose, and while harsh, agitated whispers came from Carter, Charlie simply stood there and frowned.

"Who'd have thought Carter would have a midget cousin." Hogan said with laughter in his voice.

"His family keeps getting weirder and weirder." Kinchloe agreed. LeBeau glowered at the two of them, muttering again.

Newkirk was even more confused than ever. Why on earth would he be so riled about his cousin being here? Then again, he had observed how protective the American could be, in many circumstances, stupid, but protective.

_And stubbornness must be a family trait… _he thought humorously. As soon as Carter stopped for breath, Charlie started waving his hands in communication again. Carter looked confused for a moment, probably as to why his cousin wasn't speaking, and then he glanced down to Charlie's collar. He flicked it down with a quick movement, and his eyes widened. Charlie batted his hand away roughly, and continued signing

Newkirk understood a bit of sign language, but this was completely different than anything he had learned. Carter understood though, and that was the important thing. Carter visibly sighed and his shoulders relaxed a bit. With one more pointed look, he was finished.

As they walked back into the room, Newkirk watched both faces for reactions and expressions. Carter was obviously flustered, but his cousin's face was as blank of emotions, except for his one visible eye, which told almost even more than if he was speaking. Some people, Newkirk knew, if their faces were void, they were either very unexpressive, or they were angry. And Newkirk had a strong feeling that it was the latter.

"All done?" Hogan asked with his eyebrows near his hairline. To which Carter nodded and glanced uneasily at Charlie.

"Yes sir, Colonel." He stepped closer to his cousin, who was currently observing the floor quite diligently.

"Well…?" Hogan prompted. Charlie looked up from the ground and touched his forehead with his fingertips, and flicked them at Hogan, then clenching his hand into a fist, made a quick circle in front of his chest.

"Uhh…Carter" Hogan stammered, not sure what that meant. Carter picked up the awkward cue.

"He says he's sorry, Colonel."

Hogan extended his hand to the smaller man. Charlie looked at it for a moment and then as if realizing why it was there, shook it cautiously. Hogan's mouth quirked upwards.

"All right, then. Let's get you cleaned up. We wouldn't want you to dirty our barracks." The younger man smiled thankfully, and nodded.

As they left tunnel six, Newkirk heard Carter ask his cousin one more question as he picked his hat up off the floor.

"When did you make Staff Sergeant?"

* * *

After introductions were made, I followed Andrew trough the tunnels, looking at them without having to duck and dodge prisoners. It was quite luxurious.

_It's amazing, yet ridiculous, how I never saw Andrew in three months of being here. Three months! _

Shaking my head, I figured it was because of fear and lack of curiosity. Now, I never would've admitted being afraid if someone had asked, but truth be told, fear had kept me from going to the prisoners directly. Who knew what their response would have been had it not been for Andy.

I smiled quietly to myself once more. How he hated that nickname. He would turn purple if I called him that in front of his compatriots. Luckily for him I couldn't speak. Ever since that rather unpleasant guard had set that upper-cut with the butt his rifle into my throat, I couldn't form words without simultaneously forming blood clots. Rather nasty, I thought.

Wiping the remaining blood off my mouth, I got a good look at the other men surrounding me.

The one named Hogan was much taller than me and the Frenchman, probably around six feet, possibly six-one. He had a very conniving sort of face, with mischievous glint in his eyes that made my skin crawl.

The African-American Sergeant, Kinchloe, if I read his tags right, was ordinary enough. Nothing outstanding in his features except the smirk he always seemed to be wearing and the eyebrow that was unconsciously perched higher than the other. And the mustache, I guess. I never did like the way mustaches looked, and I had always imagined they were itchy.

The Frenchman I thought I would get along with. He too was short, and was quite lively, always quick-stepped and alert. His eyes and hair of the same dark brown, contrasted his red sweater from his uniform. He glanced at me every now and then, probably comparing height. I knew how it felt to be teased about height, and how I always had made sure I wasn't the shortest. I always was, though.

The Englishman had not yet spoken, but his uniform told me he was a Corporal of the Royal Air Force. Newkirk, Kinchloe had called him. He seemed rather solemn at the moment, and was unnaturally detached compared to the others. His face was tired, but he had an air about him that told me he was a ladies man.

As I tried to further examine his face, he turned on me, slamming his blue-eyed gaze into my Cyclops one. I averted my eye quickly; probably looking like a guilty schoolboy caught copying off of another kid's answers.

_Way to make a first impression, Charlie! _ I thought blandly. I felt his stare leave me, and I looked up. We had reached the end of the tunnel system. Andrew came a bit closer to me and leaned over.

"We're going to go up, and if the coast is clear, you can too, ok?" he said in a hushed voice. I glared at him, in a manner I hoped was sardonic.

_Do I look like a child to you? _ I signed in our personal language we had created as teens. He looked me up and down.

"Except for the eye patch, yes, you do." I glared harder, and then stopped, realizing I sort of proved his point.

He motioned for me to stay where I was, and I did so without another option. Well, I did have an option, but the other choice was to take off running like a hooligan and be declared loco. I sighed heavily through my nose, as it hurt to do so with my mouth, not to mention all the dried blood flakes in my throat that would be dislodged as well. Not exactly the most appetizing thing in the world.

Thinking about tasting something, I remembered the bag of food, and opening it, grabbed a bell pepper and bit into that sucker without bothering to cut it up. I thought it was better that way for two reasons. First, I was hungry, and had not eaten since yesterday. Secondly, even though I was a cousin of Andrew, I had still stolen and hidden from them, so I had a hunch that whipping out the knife I had hidden in my collar, even just to cut up a pepper, would be taken in bad taste.

I didn't mind too much, anyway. It reminded me of when I was a kid, how I would run into Aunt Jenny's garden and snatch as many peppers and green tomatoes as my short arms would allow, and bolt away to the creek, where I would meet Andy, and he and I would eat every single one. I would eat the peppers, and Andy, the tomatoes. Never did understand why he liked them.

I stole the veggies because I was always was the more devious of the two, and was by far the better thief and liar. I always made up better excuses than him, too. Maybe not something I should be proud of, but I was. I could still hear my aunt scolding me for the theft of her vegetables, even as I consumed the pepper in my hand.

I enjoyed that pepper immensely. As I finished my meal, Andrew's head popped down through the entrance and he waved me up. I tossed the stem and seed cluster back into the sack and clambered up the ladder to be met by a dozen stares. It was unnerving.

I waved awkwardly, and looked to Andrew for my next move. He put one palm towards me and mouthed _wait_. So wait I did. Hogan glanced back at me and turned back to the other men.

"Gentlemen, this is Staff Sergeant Ryan, cousin to our very own Carter." I felt the need to bow in humility from all the looks they gave me. There were both glares and traces of interest in all of their faces. I gave a half smile once more, and checked to see if my patch was still in place, just out of habit.

Hogan threw names at me left and right, and I tried to mentally catalog all of them. I had to shake hands with all of the men in barrack 2, and was grateful for the gloves, as I had never been one for physical contact. Well, with the exception of combat and such, but otherwise I avoided people touching me like the plague.

_I bet Andy won't be happy about me learning how to fight, either…_ I thought vaguely. I was always the one who would pick a fight, but as I was pretty small as a kid, Andrew would weasel me out of it. Not that I was much bigger now…

"You'll be sleeping in the tunnel until we can figure something out, Sergeant Ryan." I looked up quickly, startled by Hogan's voice. I really would have to lasso my thoughts more often. They seemed to like to wander away…


	3. Chapter 3

**My deepest apologies everyone, between starting school late, the piles of homework, chores and losing internet, I just haven't had time to write, but I somehow got this done for you. Thank you all who have read, reviewed and followed my work!**

Newkirk couldn't fathom the fact of this Ryan fellow. He had been hiding in the tunnels for only God-knows how long, and not once had they seen him! He had absolutely no idea how they could have missed him. It was infuriating! The only thing that gave him any credit was he was related to Carter, who was one of the most loyal people Newkirk ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Newkirk sighed as he folded the rough sketch he had been working on and tossed it in his locker. Carter and his cousin were down in the living space of the tunnels where they kept escapees until they could move them along, probably fussing over the kid, who was a rank above him.

There was another thing that puzzled him. How did a young, fresh-faced kid like that get up to Staff Sergeant? Carter would have mentioned any high-ranking relative that could have slid him into a position that was more than he deserved. He must be quite a skilled little bugger, that one. Or he was simply lucky, either way Newkirk wasn't going to warm up to the man any time soon.

Schultz banged the door open and walked in stiffly.

"Roll call, everybody out, out, out!" he waved his arms to punctuate his sentence. Newkirk elbowed Kinch and they surrounded Schultz and talked over each other, creating a distraction as LeBeau went to get Carter out of the tunnel.

As soon as he saw the brown hair of Carter poke its way out of the barracks door, he shoved his fellow soldiers towards the door. They lined up single-file, in two straight lines, the boys from barrack 3 joining them, as custom. Schultz then proceeded to quickly count them so he wouldn't have to stay in the harsh cold longer than he needed to. Klink poked his head out the door of the office building and wrapping his arms around himself, shuffled onto the porch.

"Report!" he shouted with a shiver in his voice. Schultz saluted and replied all present and accounted for.

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Klink spun around and ran back inside.

_Wimp_, Newkirk thought smugly. Schultz hurried them back into the Barracks and after the last prisoner entered, slammed the door.

The men moseyed back to whatever they were doing before, including Carter, who opened the door to the tunnel, and climbed down. Newkirk was curious as to the Americans protectiveness of his cousin. He was always hovering over Ryan, and was awfully upset about him being here. Trying to think of a reason, a memory struck him.

A long while ago, Carter had made a reference to his deceased uncle and aunt. It must have been Ryan's parents that had died. He supposed that made sense, seeing as they had died a while ago, and Ryan couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen. Twenty tops. The kid would've had to move in with his closest relatives, and from what Carter had said, the couple had lived no more than a few miles away from Carters home.

_Let's see, he had mentioned the eleven-year, um, anniversary, a few months ago, and Carter said he had lived with them since he was twelve, so that would make Ryan_, he paused his thoughts. _There was no way that kid was twenty-three! He looked no older than seventeen!_ Newkirk shook his head, unbelieving. Just then, Carter and Ryan popped out of the tunnel, and they were both wearing smiles that spoke of good memories. Ryan's smile sat slightly crooked on his face, like a goofy school kid. At least, like a very sly, deceptive school kid.

That little sneak-thief... Newkirk thought begrudgingly. He hated the fact he, The Trickster, had been tricked. By someone he had at least six years on. Just thinking about it gave him a headache. He picked up a deck of cards and started shuffling them out of habit. Carter saw the movement and looked at Newkirk expectantly.

"You wanna play Gin Rummy?" he asked delightedly. Newkirk's headache worsened. Gin Rummy was the one card game that Carter could play properly, and in fact, he dominated even Newkirk. One of the few things he held over the others, actually.

So when Carter asked about it, Newkirk glared daggers into his friend's eye sockets.

"Or we could play poker" the other man said cautiously, taking a half step back.

Better. Newkirk began to deal cards, and his mood lightened. Not all the way, granted, but it improved to where he didn't feel like the next person to talk should drop dead. He saw Ryan move slightly out of the corner of his eye, and looked up at the newcomer curiously.

"I suppose you want to play as well?" he asked with a touch of irritation. Ryan studied him for a moment and his lips tightened ever so slightly. Then after a long while, shook his head slightly. He took a seat next to his cousin anyway. As cards flew across the table, the prisoners chatted back and forth as usual, with Ryan looking on silently. At first Newkirk thought he perhaps didn't know how to play, but the look in his eyes said he wanted to play but felt it unnecessary to further prod Newkirk's temper. Newkirk had to respect the wisdom of the Americans decision.

Hogan entered near the end of the third round of poker, and shut the door in a fashion that caught every man in the barracks attention. The hands on the table ceased their motion as the Colonel scanned the room and his eyes came to rest on Ryan and Carter. He gave the two a curious look and then frowned in such a way that puzzled Newkirk.

"Why didn't you tell us that you were part of the Underground?" He demanded.

Newkirk froze and stared at Ryan, who was sighing and rolling his eye. Ryan made an indignant gesture to his throat, which made Hogan's left eye twitch with anger. No-one in the barracks had ever seen someone sass their leader and get away with their pride or dignity intact. The look on Hogan's face was priceless, but Newkirk hoped that it would never be directed at him.

Newkirk felt his eyes widen at the frankness this newcomer used while talking, er, signing to Hogan. Hogan would have been quick to put anyone else in their place, but for some reason, he simply took the smarmy remark in stride.

"You could've told us instead of us using other resources, _Bluejay_." he punctuated the last word. Everyone in the barracks perked up at that, Carter included.

Bluejay was an infamous Underground agent that had no face recognition except to the highest leaders in the Underground. A highly trained, highly resourceful agent that was known for finding out the most preciously kept secrets of Germany, Bluejay was a miniature legend surpassed only by Tiger and the Unsung Heroes.

The small American just shrugged, smiling at the reaction of the prisoners. Carter looked quite flabbergasted at the revelation. Ryan, or Bluejay, made a flippant gesture with his hand, and signaled something to his cousin. Carter stuttered and relayed the message to Hogan.

"He-uh, Says that he wanted to see how much you knew about him… sir." Hogan tilted his head and nodded distantly.

"Why?" his nodding stopped. Ryan raised his eye into the far corner of his eyelid, as if accessing a thought. He rapidly gave Carter another encrypted message and looked back at the Colonel.

"No specific reason, just, uh... er, just wanted to see how much you would be able to find out. Ya know, to uh, test your efficiency." Carter appeared to have reworded his cousin's statement, probably not wanting to provoke the Colonel.

Ryan rolled his eye in mock exasperation towards his cousin. He smiled in a cat-like fashion, and touched his fingers to his forehead, in a casual salute. Hogan returned the smile but not the salute.

"I find it interesting that a big-time spy, like yourself, would only make staff sergeant in a rinky-dink group like the Cloud Raiders." he was taunting Ryan's position in one of the lesser-known squadrons, that much Newkirk could see. Ryan glanced at the stripes and insignia on his jacket, and quick as a flash, a look of devastation, not humiliation, crossed his face.

Something about the Colonel's statement had triggered a memory. Newkirk knew how to read people, and he had seen that expression before.

But Ryan looked up at Hogan and gave a sauntering smile, shrugging one shoulder. With a dismissive gesture, he flexed his hands, and then popped his knuckles in a loud series of snaps. Rolling off the bunk he had taken position on, he dropped to the floor without making a sound. Hogan's eyes narrowed.

"Going somewhere?" Ryan looked up at the rhetorical question. He pointed at the door and puffed out his cheeks and stomach in imitation of something, then jumped into the open tunnel without use of the ladder. Not even a second later, Schultz banged open the door.

It was uncanny how Ryan saw and heard things no-one else could, or at least before anyone else.

Schultz stomped the snow off his boots and addressed Hogan.

"Colonel Hogan, the Commandant wishes to see you in his office."

Hogan looked between the men, and then put his arm around the fat sergeant's shoulder.

"Will do, Schultz." he headed to the door, then turned back. "Coming, Schultz?"

Schultz had remained in place, and throwing a winsome and longing look at the food LeBeau was preparing, followed Hogan out the door in a sad, shuffling manner.

Carter closed the door after the fat German, and then making sure that he wasn't going to return, went into the tunnel after his cousin.

Newkirk shook his head and followed. He regretted promising to find and adjust clothes for the newcomer.

_Snotty little rat,_ he grumbled to himself. A bit of his conscience tapped at his forehead. _He's probably not all that bad, Peter. You're just grumpy that he got the best of you,_ he tried to dislodge the thought he knew was true, but didn't want to admit to.

He made his way to the living quarters in the tunnel. The first thing his mind registered was a flurry of movements, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw Ryan sitting on top of

Carter's back, arm wrapped around his cousin's neck.

At first, Newkirk thought that they were having an actual fight, but the hysterical expressions plastered on their faces told him otherwise. He leaned back on the wall, not wanting to break up the entertaining scene before him, and watched quietly.

Carter wasn't the best grappler Newkirk had ever seen, but he could handle himself with ease and was relatively fast for a brainless oaf. But even so, Ryan was making mincemeat of him. The kid was everywhere at once, dodging and twisting Carter's limbs into awkward angles, with the agility of an acrobat. Newkirk winced at the punctuation of Ryan's final blow, which was a double-fist into the back of Carter's knees, and a solid kick in the chest.

Carter tumbled backwards, and then simply lay gulping like a fish on the dirt floor, his face red with fatigue and humiliation.

Ryan shook in silent laughter, and then made a gurgle as blood escaped from his mouth sheepishly, he wiped it away, and the spit the remainder onto the floor as he extended his hand out his cousin. Carter waved away the hand that was smeared with sweat and blood, smiling with amusement.

"You've certainly gotten better at grappling, Cuz." He said in a laughing tone.

Ryan smiled and bowed dramatically. Then he saw Newkirk, and the smiled waned. Ryan assumed a military stance, and Carter turned towards Newkirk, seeing him for the first time. Ryan adjusted the eye patch that was slightly askew.

"Oh, hey." Carter greeted him awkwardly. "I guess you're here to help with the clothing?"

Newkirk nodded and pulled his pocket kit out. He felt Ryan's gaze follow him as he walked across the room and sorted through the clothes basket. It was unnerving, to say the very least. The presence of the watchful eyes left him, and when he turned around, Ryan was riffling through his bag frantically. His face revealed panic, and he dumped out the entirety of his bag.

Newkirk, his hands full of clothing, cleared his throat loudly, trying to catch the young man's attention. Ryan turned at the sharp noise.

"Looking for something?" He asked rhetorically. Ryan nodded distractedly, and continued searching the items, indicating with his hands a small square.

Newkirk instantly knew what he was looking for, the box that he had found in Ryan's sack of belongings. He nonchalantly felt inside his jacket for the tin, and when Ryan turned his back to him, Newkirk slipped the box out and onto a nearby table. As soon as it was on the tabletop, he stepped quickly away from it, and ignored its presence.

Ryan kept rummaging through his bag with so much vigor Newkirk feared he would soon be patching rips in the sack. Newkirk started laying out clothes, inspecting them thoroughly. The hard part would be finding clothes that matched, and he hoped, were relatively small. Though he was a tailor, Newkirk didn't like doing unnecessary work. He went quickly through the uniforms, and found an outfit that used to belong to one of the newer prisoners: A sergeant Baker. They were the only matching clothes, but were much too big for the tiny staff sergeant. Sighing resignedly, and looked up from his work at Ryan.

He smiled with relief when he saw that the young man had found the box, and didn't seem suspicious.

"Ryan!" he spoke loudly across the room. "Come 'ere, if you will."

The American complied and quickly was on Newkirk's side of the tunnel. He looked expectantly at Newkirk, head cocked like a dog's. His face was flushed, and his uncovered eye was bright and sparkling from the frantic search. Newkirk felt the tiniest pang of guilt for stealing the box, but mentally shook it off. It was what he did; he was, after all, the thief amongst the team.

"I need to adjust these, so if you'd be so kind…" He held the measuring tape out towards Ryan. The smaller man looked at him eye to eyes, and smiled, with a shake of his head, he snatched the tape and clothes out of Newkirk's hold, and began the work himself measuring, cutting and pinning, all quite diligently.

Newkirk frowned. This little American was full of surprises.

I pulled the thread back and forth, in and out, savoring the distraction it provided. It was nice to be able to sew without it being considered, well, girly. I wasn't necessarily a fan of sewing, but I happened to be good, and most guys found it hysterical. It gave them another reason to hassle me; I was short, skinny, and couldn't shoot a handgun for my life. If it wasn't for my stealth and infiltration skillset, I would be the shame of the Air Force.

I smiled. I was also was pretty dang good with an Anti-aircraft gun.

Shards of metal and rolling flames smeared across my vision, and I dropped my handiwork onto the dirty floor. I felt the fear re-envelop me, and I grabbed my head with my hands, as if I could grab my memories and pull them out. The horror in their voices seared my mind.

"Watch it, mate!" the Cockney accent startled me, and I looked up at the unhappy face of the Englishman, Newkirk.

"We only have the one shirt to spare. Be careful!" he berated me.

I gave an apologetic look that had a hint of irritation in it, and picked up the shirt. An unexpected volley of coughs racked my body, scaring the life out of me and my grumpy companion alike.

I shivered with sudden cold, and turned away from Newkirk's irritated glance. I frowned at my shaking hand, wishing I had a stronger immune system. The cold of the tunnels had taken its toll on my body. I hoped it would go away before someone noticed. If they sniffed out a weakness, a disability, or instability, they might poke and prod until I couldn't take anymore, and then they might tell the High-Ups. The head of the Underground didn't like having any weak parts in the elaborate puzzle we formed. Any broken parts were dutifully replaced.

I stitched the shirt pieces back together slowly and steadily, and let my mind fall into the recurring mechanics. Up, down, up, down. In, out, in, out. The needle and thread kept a consistent rhythm, and I vaguely heard a complement come from another prisoner regarding my handiwork. And then I heard a quiet snarl come from Newkirk, him and his stupid pride issues. A twirl of the thread, and a pass under a loop, and a knot formed. I leaned over and bit the thread; a small _snap_ sounded, and I held the garment out for inspection. I smiled at it. Lovely.

I pulled it over my head and tucked it over the baggy undershirt I had been lounging about in. My eye patch strayed from its place, and I hurriedly nudged it back in place. It was a bother to wear, but that stupid eye was a source of mockery and a cause for others to isolate me. Though it was kind of funny-looking for a skinny, five-three kid to wear a patch, it was better than the alternative. No win-win situations about that.

I was relieved that the sweater vest wasn't awfully big, and could be worn the way it was. Knitted materiel always gave me trouble. And then the final garment that needing mending was the pants, which I only had to hem and take in the waist. That process only took twenty-some minutes, so looking around and seeing no one, I quickly dodged behind a wall and changed garments. I had no need of them seeing exactly how skinny I was. Belch.

I tucked everything into place, and put on the boots I had been given. I didn't like the way they wobbled loosely on my feet, but they were warm.

Lastly was my hat. A snug, olive-green woolen cap with a small brim; almost as if a toboggan cap and a baseball cap had been blended together. I loved wearing hats. I felt so very mysterious when wearing them, and they were part of my job. Technically, disguises were part of my job, but hats were part of a disguise, so same thing.

Andrew came in as I straightened out my outfit. He smiled brightly at me and rubbed his hands together mischievously. I smiled along, knowing what that face meant.

"Wanna help me with a project, Charlie?" He asked, already knowing the answer. I gave an instant thumbs-up and followed him.

When Andy said "Project", he meant something that went _BOOM_. Andrew and I were infamous around the neighborhood for causing loud disturbances. We would show up at the house black-faced, smelling of gunpowder and Aunt Jen would be going between wringing her hands and scolding our foolishness. Ah, those were the best of days.

Andrew opened a door and held it until I entered. I looked around the room and took in all it had to offer. An assortment of jars, tins, beakers, and, well, everything imaginable was scattered about a workbench that showed evidence of experiments gone wrong. The place was a battlefield of the worst sort.

I looked at my cousin with an eyebrow raised. _You really need to clean this place up. _

Andy waved off my message.

"It works for me." He said as he shoved a pile of debris off his chair. A loud popping sound echoed and we both jumped. I nudged the pile that he had dumped with my foot, and revealed a now-detonated pile of pressure-activated fire crackers.

I stared at him for a very long moment. He smiled sheepishly in return.

"I suppose it could be cleaner…" I sighed and shook my head as I picked up object after object from the floor. Andrew was becoming even sloppier now that he wasn't under constant supervision.

_How do you find things in here?_ I signed. He shrugged and made no other response. I had a feeling that I would have my work cut out for me. I found a sense of peace in keeping things orderly, so this was like dying and being stuck in purgatory.

"Hey, Charlie, you don't need to clean that." If I was able to laugh hysterically, I would have. After a long while, the room was clean enough for my satisfaction.

_So, what are we making?_ I asked. He got a wicked grin and handed me a piece of paper that had a list of chemicals. I read the components and I felt a smile similar to his come across my face.

Ah, the joys of dynamite.

In the blink of an eye, we were gathering nitroglycerin, diatomaceous earth, and clay. Plus a few extra things we had discovered aided the explosion. I watched as Andy carefully poured the mixture of nitrogen and glycerol. His hands were steadier than when we had last blown something up. I smiled at his concentrated look.

_He's learning._


End file.
